Zoo City

by Lauren Beukes

  She bends down to pull her wet shoe onto her bare foot. Then she looks up, straight at us. I put my finger to my lips, pleading. She stares. One alligator. Two alligator. Three alligator. Four alligator. Five alligator. Six alligator. And then she yelps, "Here! Tumi! She's here, she's here, she's here!"

  Shit. So much for victim solidarity. I shove her into the canal. She screams, a thin sound that cuts off abruptly as she goes under. She emerges a second later, thrashing wildly and spluttering, without her shoe or my phone.

  "Stand up!" I yell at the idiot girl, who doesn't realise the water is only waist-deep, maybe chest-deep on her. Nasty Tumi is wading back towards me, grinning, Yellow Eyes splashing up after him.

  "You might want to help your girlfriend." I stay where I am, back against the wall, searching out the rubble at my feet with one hand. "The water's rising."

  "She can take care of herself," he says, but Yellow Eyes stops to pull her up. She falls against him, sobbing, nearly pulling him under.

  "What about you?" I ask Tumi. But it's just a play for time. I've found what I've been looking for. I close my hand over a broken brick, stand up and hurl it with full force, not at his head, but his hand. Tumi howls and drops the screwdriver. It plinks into the water and disappears, the current sweeping it away with the other detritus. Busi shrieks in dismay.

  Tumi scrambles out of the water and lunges for me. But it's Sloth's arm he grabs, tearing him out of the sling and swinging him out over the canal. Sloth drops into the water, too surprised to make a sound.

  "Now what?" Tumi leers. He doesn't see Sloth resurface or start paddling for the bank, his long arms stroking elegantly through the water. But he's losing against the current, the angle of his trajectory towards the shore getting sharper as it tugs him away.

  "Fuck you," I say and stab him in the side of his neck with the broken porcupine quill. I clutch onto my bag and plunge into the canal after Sloth without sticking around to see the results.

  We wash up kilometres away, clinging to each other, battered from being hurled against the cement walls all the way down, with various additional minor wounds, including scratched arms and legs from a surprise collision with a broken branch wedged under the water.

  It takes a long time to find the strength to stand up and carry on, and when I shrug Sloth onto my shoulders, he is so waterlogged, it feels like he's put on ten kilos. Sloth is ominously quiet. It's an indication of how much shit we're in because normally he's the first to complain, bleating rebukes in my ear.

  The worst is that I don't know where we are. It's not like I'm the world authority on Joburg's storm drains, but I've been down here enough times looking for lost things to know the basic lie of the land. This is all unfamiliar. The tunnels are a scramble of pitch-black termite holes, some of them narrowing away to nothing, like whoever was digging them got bored and wandered off. The original gold diggings maybe, when Johannesburg was still just a bunch of hairy prospectors scrabbling in the dirt. Maybe we'll bring home a nugget the size of Sloth's head.

  Sloth guides me through the dark, squeezing my shoulders like handlebars. If we could just find a lost thing, I could follow the connection back home, like a trail of breadcrumbs.

  But hours later, we have not stumbled on anything, not a lost thing, not an exit, not even a passage that leads anywhere, just one dead end after another in the humid dark. Sloth squeaks once, a bleak little noise as I slump down against the wall. My feet are aching, my stomach is clenched, like hunger is a sweet it could suck on.

  "Don't sweat it, buddy. We'll get out of here," I say. "No worries."

  But he can tell I don't believe myself. It's so black down here, my eyes invent ghosts to make up for the sensory deprivation, ripples of black on black. It's as quiet as purgatory.

  And then Sloth chirrups and looks up with a sharp jerk of his head. Swimming is not the only thing he does better than me. I strain to listen. My heart drops into my gut. "Is it them?"

  There is a low rumbling sound, almost indiscernible, but it's building, like house music rising to a dancefloor crescendo. I stand up in a hurry. "Water?" There are reports every year of kids who have drowned in the drains, caught out by flash floods that come out of practically nowhere while they're messing around in the tunnels smoking dope or looking for ninja turtles.

  But Sloth clucks in irritation, shutting me up so he can listen. It's something else. He bats at my face with urgent pawings, the way he does when I've overslept. "All right, all right," I say, staggering to my feet and in the direction he guides me, towards the epicentre of the noise. It better not be a wall of water.

  The sound reverberates through the tunnels, ramping up to a teeth-rattling earthquake. There is a glow up ahead, as if of civilisation. Hope sparks in my gut. I stumble forward, round a corner, into blinding artificial light. I make out huge metal ribs lining the tunnel like the belly of a robot whale. And then a whip of glass and metal thunders past inches from my face.

  The blur of one shocked pink face staring out the window, mouth open in a perfect O of surprise, is the only witness to the near-death of Zinzi December by Gautrain.

  21.

  Brixton is not quite the new Melville, but since House of Nsako and now Counter Rev the area is definitely on the up, complete with irate residents complaining about noise levels and cars blocking their driveways. I walk up to the entrance, limping only slightly. It took hours to wash the smell of drains out of Sloth's fur, and I'm wearing a longsleeved top under my '60s pinafore dress to hide the worst of the scratches. Otherwise, we're pretty good, considering the traumas of the day: having to talk my way past Gautrain security, finding a taxi in Sandton willing to take a filthy, wet and stinking zoo girl downtown so I could rescue my car.

  The sharecall phone number Vuyo gave me was for a taxi company, Quick-Quick. The operator was able to check the log for Sunday morning, 02h46. "Yes, we received a call," she said, gruffly. "Pick up was for 14 Highbury Road, Brixton. Some kind of club. Counter Revolutionary? Heading to Morningside. So you gonna pay for it?"

  "Pay for what?"

  "Customer never showed. Our driver waited for twenty minutes. Could have got two more fares in. That's lost income. That's–" But I'd already hung up on her.

  The doors of Counter Rev are dramatically oversized, glossy black with huge silvered handles in the shape of a reversed C and R facing off against each other. Hip hop booms from within, breezy lyrics over a richly malevolent melody. The bouncer is wearing dark sunglasses and a red and black jacket with a gold helmet insignia pinned to his lapel, accessorised with massively bunched shoulders and a hefty dose of aggro. But when I hesitate outside, he drops the attitude and lifts the velvet rope.

  "Going in?"

  "Waiting for someone," I say. "Thanks." Said someone is going to be another hour at least. I'm crazy early, but tonight isn't about seeing Gio.

  "Warmer waiting inside," the bouncer says. "Just saying."

  "Ah, but I'm not allowed to smoke inside." I tap out a cigarette from a box of lights purchased specially for the occasion. "Just like the song? I fought the law."

  "Law won," he agrees and flicks a cheap plastic lighter under the tip of my cigarette. Smoking: still the number one ice-breaker known to humankind. His eyes flick down to the bruises on my wrist.

  "The Sloth going to be a problem?

  "You tell me."

  "But there's no official policy?"

  "Right of admission reserved."

  "Who decides that?"

  "I do."

  "You're not a man of many words."

  "Not what they pay me for."

  "So who doesn't get past you?"

  He ticks off the offences on his fingers. His knuckles are lined with fine scars, and two of his fingers are splinted together. I'm guessing amateur boxing. No bouncer sees that much action in a nice part of town like this. "If they don't make the dress code. If they're already drunk. If they're known dealers. If I don't like their attitude."

  "Do I ma
ke the dress code?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you like my attitude?" I drop the remains of the cigarette and crush the tip under the toe of my boot.

  His demeanour changes abruptly. "Hey, you one of the new girls?" he says sharply.

  "Maybe I'd like to be." I have not been expecting this tack.

  "Because the staff entrance is round the back. Joey know you're here?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "You better go find out. And take your butt with you." It takes me a second to realise he means the cigarette.

  "Thanks – I didn't get your name?" I say, picking up the stompie and putting it in my pocket.

  "Ronaldo."

  The staff entrance leads into the kitchen. A man unpacking pre-prepared maki rolls from the fridge directs me to just go on up the stairs. I make a mental note to pass on the sushi. I walk along a corridor with a row of staff lockers, past an open door leading into a bathroom where a cluster of exquisite and frighteningly young waitresses are touching up their make-up, and up the stairs to the door marked MANAGER. I knock and follow orders when a gruff "Come in!" is barked from within.

  The door opens into an austere office overlooking the dancefloor below, a view supplemented by a monitor linked to the CCTV that switches between cameras every twenty seconds or so, including the ones in the bathrooms above the washbasins. A giant of a woman is going through a spreadsheet, if the reflection in the window behind her is any indication. She looks up wearily and snatches off her glasses as if she's not used to wearing them. Or not used to being seen in them.

  "Ag no. No-no-no," says Joey at the sight of me. She has ash-blonde hair ironed straight as an army bed-fold and silver glitter eyeshadow that enhances the difference between her eyes, one blue, one hazel. She is wearing a tuxedo with a corset that somewhat restrains her generous frame, but not her boobs, which are doing their best to make an escape and take over the world. She must have made a fortune in her Former Life, which I'm guessing involved grinding up against a pole and many, many different laps. "I don't know who told you to come see me, my baby. But you are far too old. I'm sorry."

  "Can't I even – waitress?" I hazard a guess.

  "Sorry, my engel. That's a little too much exoticism even for our clientele. Dancers only. But maybe some place like the Foxhole would consider a mature girl like you."

  "I really had my heart set on working here." I whine a little and try a petulant look. "Odi said I could."

  "Oh, did he now? Well, tough breaks, skattebol, you're no little Carmen. You can tell Odi he can make calls on staffing when he shows his face around here, not before." Her attention snaps back to her computer screen as if it's magnetic. "Are you still here?" she says, not looking up. I take the hint and head for the bar.

  Front of house, Counter Rev is twenties decadence meets electro glam. Great Gatsby by way of Lady Gaga, in shades of white and silver. A massive abstract chandelier cut from clear perspex hangs over the oval bar with its low, white neon counter, softly lit from underneath. Odi isn't fucking around. This is a far cry from the music venue grunge of Bass Station. The dancefloor is hemmed in by a ripple of booths in cool cream-coloured leather, the curve angled just right to allow each a modicum of privacy while still sustaining maximum potential for seeing and being seen. Opposite the seating above, the DJ booths are three grand archways with raised platforms all fenced off with white bamboo bars strung with ribbons.

  "You the new girl?" The bartender says, jerking his head at one of the dancer's cages. He's pretty in a schmodelly kinda way, apart from a long nose and skin too pale to pull off all-white in a white neon glow.

  "Just a regular patron. Can you get me a G&T? Hold the G."

  "All right," he says, pouring out a tonic water.

  "Actually, you know what, give me the full equation." I ignore Sloth's hiss in my ear. "I think I've earned it."

  "Whatever you say," he says and pours me a double. Sloth reaches out and tries to swipe the glass off the counter.

  "Frisky little guy," I reprimand, grabbing his paw midswing. "Sorry, he can't handle his booze."

  "Yeah, I've heard of that," the bartender says. "You affect the animal?"

  "It's a problem," I admit. "Do you have somewhere I could stash him? A coat check, maybe?"

  The bartender shakes his head, amused, but the query wasn't for his benefit. There are no more attempts from the peanut gallery to prevent me having my drink. I'm feeling reckless. It feels good.

  "I'm too early, aren't I?" I say, surveying the territory.

  "Things only really get going round about eleven, twelve. Even on a weeknight."

  "What's the crowd like?"

  "Rich. Trendy. Beautiful. Lot of power people."

  "Bet you get laid a lot. What's your name?"

  He actually blushes. "I've got a girlfriend. And it's Michael."

  "What do you do when you're not bartending, Michael?"

  "I'm a student. Marine biology at the University of Johannesburg."

  "Marine biology? Are you ever in the wrong city."

  "No kidding."

  "Can I make a contribution towards a transfer to a coastal facility? I tuck R500 under my coaster.

  "What's this for?"

  "Just the name of the bouncer who was friendly with Songweza Radebe."

  "You from Heat?"

  "Something like that."

  "This going to come back to me?"

  "Michael. Please. I don't even know your name."

  He slips the coaster off the counter, the R500 vanishing seamlessly with it. "Ronaldo. Ro. But I don't think it went anywhere."

  "Ro the jealous type?"

  "Nah, man, he's a real sweet guy. He was always looking out for her. Didn't like her coming here so young. Bad influence, you know?"

  "Oh, I know."

  "He beat the crap out of some guy who tried to dope her drink a few months back. It happens sometimes. We found a girl passed out in the toilets last Friday. Had to break the cubicle door down. Joey was seriously pissed. Have you been in the toilets yet?"

  "Not yet."

  "You should go. Highlight of the venue. Those doors cost ten grand a pop."

  "Lot of drugs going around?"

  "Not according to official policy." He turns cool on me, suddenly very busy with grinding up ice for cocktails. I guess drug skinder isn't included in the fee. Most club "policies" are no more than lip service, or at best a system for keeping out unregulated dealers, the kind with dodgy product or who aren't willing to let the house have a taste of the profits. Most clubs have in-house service providers. They're not hard to find if you know where to look.

  I sip my G&T and watch the place start to fill up. By "power people", the bartender meant older guys with younger girls in countless variations of suits and little black dresses. They occupy the booths and order top-shelf champagne and single malts. The younger, clubbier crowd are dressed more effortlessly casual in designer jeans and trainers, and tend to head straight for the bar. There's nothing interesting about these people.

  I do spot the house dealer, or rather he spots me. Junkie pheromones reel him in like a paedophile homing in on a crèche. He swings in to sit beside me, just a boy making a move on the lonely Sloth girl in the corner. He's a sweet-looking guy with sandy curls and a preppy shirt and chinos. The kind your dad would be pleased to have you bring home. "Heya, love," he says, "haven't seen you here before."

  "First time."

  "Having a good time?"

  "Sure."

  "Mike said you might be looking for something?" Michael is preoccupied on the other side of the curve, tending to a posse of chic girls in jewel tops and black business skirts who are starting to get a little loose and sloppy as after-work drinks turns into an all-nighter.

  "Did he now?" Sloth hunches his shoulders and hisses at the guy.

  "Hey, that's just what he said. If I'm bothering you, I'll go away."

  "I'm sticking with this tonight, thanks."

  His easy smile doesn
't even falter. "Maybe later then, love." He winks, peels away into the throng and is next seen dancing with a girl in a satiny top and low-rider jeans that have ridden a little too low, revealing her bespangled underwear and a fair section of her arse.

  "There you are." Gio collapses onto the barstool next to me. He still sounds pissy, although he's made some effort. He's wearing a very subtle, very expensive cologne. "Why don't you answer your phone? I've been trying to call you all night."

  "My phone and I parted ways. Call it a tactical withdrawal." But he's not really listening.

  "Was that guy bugging you? This place can be such a meat market."